


where we go home

by Graysworks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, just one m, just one more realization of feelings fic, pining shiro, they are in so much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graysworks/pseuds/Graysworks
Summary: After the war, home takes on a new meaning.





	where we go home

**Author's Note:**

> this! came out of nowhere! and that's okay with me tbh

It's sunrise when he finally gets to Shiro. Seven months, a new coalition and endless research in; they've been skirting around the question of _them_ for so long that he's almost assumed they'd let it fall to the wayside indefinitely, but fate seems to have other plans. There's an impromptu hang out in Lance's dorm, Keith's arm thrown around his shoulders, a meeting where they doze into each other and wake nose to nose in one, terrifying second; it's a dozen little moments after that, and then some.  
  
Sharing a room, watching him pilot. He's different from the quantum abyss, still Keith but matured somehow like wood cured by time and sand and whatever it is exactly that cures wood. The thought comes to Shiro that; dancing (swaying) at some military ball on a loud night, pillowing his head into Keith's shoulder between long meetings, touch has always been something so exclusively _theirs_ that sensing a shift is virtually impossible in its own right. Keith ducks his head and hugs him once, twice in a deserted hall and again later that night when the unexpected terrors catch him deep under the blanket of sleep, but he shudders his way into open arms and it's enough, enough, still theirs.  
  
Those are the nights they sit on the window sill and Keith hums under his breath. Krolia had passed on some slow melody from their time on the space whale, he admits later on, though Shiro could've put as much together from sitting and listening to his voice reverberate through his chest, the heartbeat under that, a little fast. He always stays there too long.  
  
And he always has to let go, in the end.  
  
They have missions. They get called out. Keith comes back with a tired grin and battered limbs and he's up the next morning to do it again, regardless of the limp and the bruising and the way Pidge whispers behind her hand that he's gone feral in his old age. Shiro wonders aloud what that makes him before realizing it's a joke and accidentally elbowing her off the cafeteria table, apologizing profusely in the face of the others' wild hyena laughter, and they only stop after Keith waves them off and stands to put his plate away. He ruffles Shiro's hair in passing, says it makes him handsome, leaves the latter to the rest of the table and the flush crawling past his collar.  
  
Embarrassing, really. Years of routine small talk and months of diplomacy and Shiro suddenly can't take a compliment from his own best friend. A week of teasing and bickering from the Paladins ensues, topped off on Friday night by a couple rounds with Keith which he wins, as usual- but there's something shallow in focusing on the victory when he's wheezing, Keith's head is tipped back on the mat in a laugh, and he trips when Shiro clasps his wrist to pull him up. He realizes with some amount of terror that they're nearly the same height. It's still a shock to see a man in front of him, sometimes, and not a gangly kid with distrustful eyes or hesitantly granted nods of respect. Keith asks him something to pull the memory away.  
  
There's a glint to his gaze. His jawline is stronger and his hair hangs past his shoulders with the weight of length, and he's solid under Shiro's hands. Suddenly the decision to leave the lights off for fear of being caught seems- bad, badly thought out because that leaves the moonlight to stream through the high gym windows and light up Keith's eyes all wild and no, Shiro wants to say, the handsome one here isn't him.  
  
It's Keith; beanpole cadet up to armored paladin up to his hands on Shiro's shoulders, his smile all old bad news. He's like something dangerous when he mutters a fond  _old timer_ and ducks his head again.  
  
Shiro almost asks him not to go the next morning.  
  
More missions, longer nights follow, and suddenly the absence is hitting him hard. It's pathetic really, Shiro realizes, two weeks in and missed calls and working, working, working himself out of the funk because it's all he can do. The bed across from his is too empty so he sleeps in his broom closet disaster of an office, usually over a stack of mostly needless paperwork that Iverson shakes his head at the next day once presented with, exasperation riddling the motion. Nobody uses paper these days, he says. Where did you even _get_ paper, Shirogane, he then asks, and they never quite come up with an answer. It's a mystery that reeks of desperation and too much shitty coffee from the upstairs lounge, a testament to how far he'll go both literally and metaphorically to drive the guilt of not calling away.  
  
"You're thinking about it too hard," Lance tells him, because of course he _is_ the first to guesstimate what's going on. "Just talk to the guy, jeez."  
  
"It's- not that simple," Shiro tries feebly, but it is. Keith would understand, he'd listen if asked and get that serious-soft look in his eyes, put Shiro at ease even as he stumbles over an apology and they'd move forward from there. Non-communication isn't really their thing, from either end, and to assume he'd be judged for opening up about missing his closest friend- it isn't just ridiculous, it's impossible. So he tries to work out a timing. Keith takes one minute, tells him he sounds like hell. It's very Keith and excruciatingly quick and probably true, but it means that they're part of the group hug after the others sprint past the hangar to greet him, and his return feels like warm sun on Shiro's neck in the middle of a landing platform. His subtle agreement to the plethora of _welcome back_ 's and _we missed you_ 's feels like something more when he pushes his face to Shiro's shoulder and hides.  
  
"I missed you too," He says, all panging simplicity, breathless laughter. They stay there long after the others have let go to discuss celebratory weekend plans, and the room feels whole again when they fumble inside after lights out, a few drinks in their systems after Matt had insisted. Keith perches on the windowsill like he'd never been gone. Kosmo trots in after him while they talk, and they talk, until there's nothing left but warm lamplight on the ceiling and even breathing from the bed across the narrow room.  
  
They have more missions. Keith is away for a month and Shiro is busy, busy, busier. He books it to the hangar when the Lions return and finds out how it feels to have his best friend jump, quite literally, into his arms, press a little chuckle of a breath into the crook of his neck. His mouth hurts from smiling so wide and it's like the sun has come out again. More missions, and more, and that never changes- that feeling like a piece of home leaving with Keith every time and settling back even stronger than before. Shiro wants to kiss him when his eyes are closed, as if it can leave an imprint on the back of them, of _I'm here_ and _come back when you can_ and _home, home, always._  
  
He thinks one day that he's in love, and then there's glass on the floor and something strange squeezing the air out of his lungs. Keith is away again. There's no one to hear the way he can't breathe for several minutes afterward.  
  
Of course. He loves Keith, he's _loved_ Keith, but to be- infatuated, wanting, it's different. It's terrifying. It's _this was never going to work_ when it was working and _we could've been so happy_ when they were, regret from past commitment spilling over into hope full force while the Lions dock later in the week, and he's telling Keith that nothing's wrong when there has to be something. He's scared. He's scared of messing this one up even as the others call him out on it. They'd danced around the question of the memorial for a long time, but they understand, and Shiro knows they're right- about everything except the part where they try to set things up, and none of it goes as planned. It ends in a shouting match and Keith's knife in the table and _is this some kind of a joke, why won't you talk to me_ , Hunk prying him out of the room when Pidge and Lance emerge to confess the prank and keep the peace.  
  
Shiro hangs onto the knowledge that they were only trying to help, but he chews them out nonetheless and closes the door a bit hard when it's evident that Keith isn't coming back. This- it isn't them, still. Explosions are rare but when Keith goes off, he's raw wires and sparking nerves and fireworks. It takes a week and a half for the flames to die down.  
  
And he finds Shiro alone when it all comes to a low burn. Wanders into the deserted kitchens with both hands shoved in his pockets, uniform tied around his waist to suggest a long day walking the grounds, saying _later_ when Shiro tells him he should be asleep like it's not his priority at the moment. He reaches around the older for whatever scrounged drink he's been nursing and takes a mouthful, makes a slight face in judgement, but Shiro doesn't bother with more protesting while he leans back against the counter.  
  
Stainless steel under his hands, crowding them in. Keith’s gaze is weighted when he lifts the cup again, murmuring a request that parts his lips.  
  
It's an old joke, somewhere in there- from a time he was down an arm and up a right hand, and they'd laugh over how people used to be afraid of coddling. A Galra arena, endless fights and then battles and sacrifice later- it was a pleasant surprise that most didn't when they returned to earth. Just Keith, he used to tease. Always the allowance, always the exception; they seem to realize now at the same time, and Shiro swallows hard with how close they've drifted already. The cup trades hands again. Something breaks over his skin at the wordless exchange, the way Keith tilts his head, willing, when Shiro's hand spans the side of his face, the way his throat moves when Shiro tips the glass against his mouth. It stops feeling like a joke.  
  
It starts feeling like a miscalculation. He isn't the only one stalling.  
  
“Shiro,” Keith says, sandpaper and history. He'll never tire of the way his name sounds in that way, like a gem to be held onto and rasped over until the edges smooth, glimmer. Part of him thinks it's the alcohol talking and part of him can admit it's the truth, another softened revelation as he ducks his head. Keith touches his chest like he hears the flightiness inside, they sway back again, and his breath catches on something. "I- 'm sorry about-"  
  
"Me too," Shiro answers, and that's all they end up needing.  
  
Separation and reunion doesn't get easier after that, but they find a way to deal, one that involves decidedly less of disengaging and unfortunately _more_ of the rest of the team's antics. The rough patch smooths over, Shiro works and pilots and tests, and the coalition starts building itself after so long- but so does the team's expectancy that something will, apparently, happen between the Captain of Atlas and the Black Paladin. Keith doesn't give any indication that he's aware of the anticipation or the stares from the rest of the Garrison crew, but he still hugs Shiro tighter than anything when he jumps out of the Lion. He still joins him on rare moments off to see the rapidly expanding town, eat Hunk's cooking and laugh at Lance's chatter in their dorm, sit on the window sill while early morning brightens the earth outside. One day it's because they'd been there all night.  
  
Keith is the kind of sunrise he could watch forever, Shiro thinks, eyeing how it glances off of him like fractured gold. He's dedicated, raw drive sometimes, long legged and good hearted and his smile is a force of nature all its own when he looks over; grown and scarred and happy, just like that. Shiro decides in a little breath that he's not passing up a once in a lifetime like him. See there's the last line on the back page, the asterisk beside the terms and conditions of war, time, whatever it is they'd signed themselves off to in a blue cockpit full of strangers- and before that, in fluorescent washed rooms under the steely eyes of people with humanity to protect.  
  
Keith is changed, but he's not the only one. Shiro's name is smeared on that old contract in black, red, any variation of the meaning in color that _matters_ and he comes to the realization that he'd do it again, because maybe the world is what he signed for- but it's Keith that he's inked over the stipulations.  
  
"Hey," Shiro starts, hesitant. Setting pen to paper again as he sits forward from the window frame, memorizing the way early sun traces the unguarded look to Keith's face. He's like nothing Shiro's ever seen, wanted, to love, all of it. The mild surprise and quiet, curious tilt of his head catches more of the light.  
  
"Hey yourself," He answers, easy as anything and when Shiro reaches, the hug is just the same; simple, familiar like always and new every time and sinking against him like falling right into the earth. Their legs tangle. Keith is so solid, warm in his arms, smile turned to his neck while they breathe out the long night at varying lengths. Nothing could change the rightness of this, if only just this. It's not so terrifying to think anymore.  
  
"You're my best friend," Shiro says into his hair, and brushes it away from the very top knob of his spine. He can feel Keith's huff against his neck. "No, you are, Keith. I love you."  
  
_Stillness_ , tentative. A rolling strength and scar tissue under one hand; Keith comes up and breathes like he wants to say something, say his name, _wear it out, please, I'd let you._ Shiro doesn't realize he'd spoken the last bit until a little  _I know_ floats between them, _I knew, Shiro_ \- but then he's laying his head against Keith's anyway, and it's easy again, little admissions, inextinguishable smiles like there's nothing more than that. Keith shines when his hands are tugging Shiro's head down that extra breadth, when he slides with a laugh against his side of the window. It's too small and then their legs are _really_ tangled.  
  
Home, Shiro catches on, laughing too between the sun rising on them and kissing Keith the way he's longed after. Maybe they won't remain in any one place, but as long as there's life in him-  
  
Home is here, always. Always.


End file.
